


One Degree to the Left

by TheWriterChaotic



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Custom Hawke (Dragon Age), F/M, Gymnophoria, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWriterChaotic/pseuds/TheWriterChaotic
Summary: Hawke has had gazes on her all her life, so when she notices someone focusing intently on her, it means nothing.Then she realizes that the person is Varric, and that changes things.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	One Degree to the Left

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fortheloveofhawke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveofhawke/gifts).



> I wanted to support a friend and write a treat for Hightown Funk 2020, and she unwittingly picked her own past prompt lol
> 
> This is written with fortheloveofhawke's custom Hawke, Niamh (Nee-ehv), who you may have seen in her longfic [Just the Faintest Touch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721033). I recommend it whole-heartedly. This is coming from someone who doesn't ship Hawke and Varric and still felt compelled to write fanfiction for a fanfic.
> 
> The prompt for this treat was the word 'gymnophoria', which is "the sensation that someone is mentally undressing you."
> 
> If you need music, I do have a playlist for this story called [Neep.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1LZFzGyDiaAtofFHaxCUTv?si=5iYhs7qoQgeQS6DSnbzSPw) on Spotify for your listening pleasure.

Balmy evening air blows into the Hanged Man when a group of young people enter. The season is changing from winter to spring, and it can be felt in the odd warm nights and mild winter days. Some of the men in the group have their jackets over their arms, and a few of the women have traded wool for silks for the night. From behind them, the form of Niamh Hawke slides away towards the head of the bar, the motion a little abrupt but unnoticed.

None of the group realize that she wasn't a part of their party, and they head over to the sound of friends calling out to them, ignoring the grumbles from the regulars. They look like some young, reckless nobles from Hightown. Hawke makes a note to visit them again later when they have had a few rounds: Wicked Grace is a lot more entertaining when the pot is sweetened with fresh blood. 

She takes a cursory look over to Varric's nook and finds him already ensconced among his avid listeners, the newcomers included. He looks well into his story, and the table before him has a few pints along the edges. He doesn't catch her eye when she looks, but with the size of the audience and the way she entered, she's not too surprised.

"Well look at you, sweet thing," Isabela murmurs as Hawke approaches the bar. A few of the closer patrons call out to Hawke as she passes, but the jubilant chatter from the new group nearly smothers them. She nods at the ones she hears and rolls her eyes when Isabela pulls her in closer to inspect the sleeveless shirt she chose to wear tonight.

"I found this old thing lying around and just put it on," Hawke says as she signals Corff, trying for demure and inevitably ruining it with a wry grin. He looks a little more harried than usual, which makes her want to harass him. The idea is shelved momentarily when Isabela hums and delicately brushes her fingers along the shoulder seams of her 'new' vest.

The shirt is well-worn, a button-down that had sleeves once. A dock worker may have worn it while talking to his superiors. It was also likely that it was _found_ on the docks. Hawke doesn't remember where she got it, only that her mother had darned the holes and repaired the seams ages ago, and it didn't cut oddly over her shoulders like some of the others she had found.

"I believe that," Isabela says. She glances briefly at Corff when he places down Hawke's drink. She eyes the slightly open collar of Hawke's shirt and touches one of the worn buttons. Hawke lets her, taking her shot with barely a grimace.

"You wanted to talk about something? Heard anything about the relic? Maybe something that _doesn't_ concern the gangs at the docks?" Hawke asks when Isabela continues to focus on the shirt where it hangs loose over her hips. A wave of laughter roars from Varric's corner, and her eyes inevitably glance over. Varric looks well situated; maybe she wouldn't bother him tonight. Maybe.

"Later," Isabela says, pulling Hawke's attention away from the dwarf. She slides a hand around Hawke's waist, moving under and lifting her shirt as she goes. Hawke scoffs, then raises an eyebrow, the silent 'really?' inherently apparent. Isabela takes a look over her shoulder to the bar beyond, then focuses solely on her, eyes dropping to her lips. Hawke finds herself clutching Isabela's forearms when she is pulled against the other woman, their bodies nearly pressed together.

"Hey," Hawke exclaims softly, mildly surprised by Isabela's actions but not fighting it. She didn't come to the Hanged Man tonight for _this_ particular brand of fun, but she can't help responding to Isabela as she is pulled closer, her shirt riding up higher. The warm air of the bar touches her lower back. She smirks through it. "I thought you had a serious lead."

Isabela's attention on her is warm and familiar, hot in the knowledge that they are _good_ together. The curious flash-heat along the breadth of her shoulders and the line of her waist is new and added a different aspect to her being wanted. Whoever is watching them has an acute awareness of the hand under her shirt, of the patch of skin that is usually hidden from the world. It's a little different from how she typically feels when she's being ogled. Hawke debates turning around to see if she can find the person responsible. 

"I have a _small_ lead, but it's more like an update: one of my guys thinks he knows who has it, and I think it's legitimate," Isabela says, her breath lightly brushing over Hawke's chin. The liquid heat of her lessens as she continues to talk about business, but her hand stays rucked up under Hawke's shirt. The heat of the gaze is still present, and Hawke feels it as physically as she feels Isabela's hand, stroking along her spine further down. Isabela continues. "It's not _my_ fault that you came in here wearing this."

"It is _actual_ trash," Hawke says through an incredulous bark of laughter, breathless in Isabela's statement and the idea that she is the focus of someone who must be _still looking_. Isabela looks at her for another moment. Hawke briefly entertains that Isabela sees through what she means before the pirate leans back and grabs the shot of whiskey left for her at her elbow. The sensual heat of the moment feels imprinted over the skin of Hawke's lower back, now hidden once more under her shirt.

"One man's trash is another woman's treasure," Isabela quips, but before Hawke can do more than groan at her, she continues. "I am not alone in wanting to get underneath, if you know what I mean."

Hawke is not unaware; they are in a crowded bar, filled with more fresh-faced patrons due to the good weather and entertaining stories. Two women openly flirting in front of the bar is a view that will invite all sorts of glances, including the one trailing over her. She slouches a little more and shrugs, ignoring the light tremble along the edges of her palms.

"If anything, I have put on _more_ clothing wearing this," Hawke says, pulling a handful of fabric at her waist. "You would need to imagine the rest, though I suppose that can be fun, too."

Isabela starts to shake her head, then slows, eyes flashing. She turns towards Corff for another drink, then moves back into Hawke's space. She's smiling in that way she does, like she knows something Hawke doesn't. She probably does.

"Not curious, then, as to who has their attention fixed on you?" Isabela asks, eyebrow raised.

When Hawke doesn't answer, Isabela shrugs and grabs her new shot. Hawke has an almost thought, a half-hearted warning of _don't you dare_ to whatever Isabela has to say. Hawke is pretty certain that Isabela ignores this silent threat.

"Varric seems invested in his stories tonight. Did he see you come in?" Isabela asks. Her eyes pass over Hawke's shoulder, and Hawke has a moment to entertain that the gaze along her body is _Varric's._ That it's Varric that wants to have a hand where Isabela's was, not to so much get under but to take _off_. Hawke lets the idea slide away and moves to stand next to Isabela, now facing Varric's direction. Hawke catches his eye while a patron asks him a question, and she tilts her chin up in greeting towards him. He gives her a wink and turns his attention back to the patron.

"Yep, he saw me," Hawke says, ignoring Isabela's 'mm-hmm' in response. It's not too often that Varric gets this kind of attention, and she figures that he'll tire of it soon. "I want to play Wicked Grace. You think his new friends will want to play with us?"

Isabela eyes the group around Varric and shrugs. "It looks like some sheep need to be fleeced. Among other things," she teases as she leers at Hawke once more. Hawke leers back, fighting a grin, then calls for Corff for another round.

"Fenris should be around later, so let's get started. I'd hate to lose so much to him like last time," Hawke jests as her eyes catch the attention of a few of the new patrons. They are starting to recognize her, likely from Varric's spun tales. She grabs her drinks and heads over.

-

It turns out that some of the newcomers aren't _too_ new, so squeezing the gold out of them is a little more difficult than Hawke expects. Fenris and Merrill come around before their rounds of Wicked Grace end, and Isabela keeps Merrill occupied while she and Varric clean house. Fenris watches haphazardly from the other end of the table, his attention drifting between Isabela and the card game. Varric chuckles good-naturedly when their hands show Hawke to be the winner of a large pot.

"What did I tell you? Don't bet against this woman; it's practically suicide," Varric says to a young man sitting across from him. Hawke scoffs and leans back into her chair, running a hand through the shorter hairs on the back of her head. Her elbow is precariously close to Varric's shoulder, but he seems unphased by this. The young nobleman looks over to her, unsure if he should be taking the smooth dwarf seriously or not. His pile is a lot smaller than it was an hour ago.

"Don't scare the nobles, Varric," Hawke says, stretching her arm across the back of his chair. The shirt stretches neatly across her shoulders, accentuating the muscles of her arms, and she catches a few of them glancing her way. She ignores it and moves to shuffle the deck. "Around round, gentlemen?"

At this point of the night, Varric and Hawke have done enough damage for most nobles to call it quits, and the bulk of them do. Fenris moves up into a recently vacated spot, as do Isabela and Merrill when it becomes clear that playing is done for the night. For them, anyway. 

"They might not be aware of how the two of you function together, but I do," Fenris says once the nobles are out of earshot, either out of the bar or off to another corner.

"Function? Broody, I think you have mistaken us if you think any of our plans require _strategy_ ," Varric says, taking a sip from his pint. Fenris scoffs, and Varric places a hand over his chest, looking betrayed. 

Hawke grins, all teeth, and knocks Varric's shoulder with her knuckles. Varric gives her an answering grin before taking another drink. Hawke wonders about the amount of pints he's had, but the mood is too good to break it with worrying. She turns back to Fenris.

"No, we save the cleanest, meanest moves when fancy company is over," Hawke says. She shifts in her seat, and her foot slides under the table. It hits a boot, likely Varric's with the present company. She lets her foot rest there, slouching against the back of the chair. She shuffles the cards and narrows her eyes at Fenris. "You get us at our dirtiest, because you'll swindle us otherwise."

Fenris hums and chuckles a little, which Hawke sees as a win. She deals them all a hand and settles into her chair, considering her hand. She begins pulling a little at the opening of her shirt, which barely reveals the shadows hiding what assets she has.

She finds herself the center of attention for at least one gaze. Hawke lets her head fall back and gives Isabela a _look_.

Isabela is once again showing Merrill the general rules of Wicked Grace, eyes on her hand. Hawke stares at her for a moment, mind stilled of all thought, before turning back to the table and placing her bet. Her hand is only subpar, but she starts the pool high. Varric raises an eyebrow.

"Very subtle, Hawke," he comments, his eyes on her bet. She takes the opportunity to look at him, her face placid and eyes lidded; perfect for playing a betting game. At least, it's perfect tonight. Varric isn't paying attention like he usually does, otherwise he would have already noticed that she knows where his attention _is_.

She looks at him all of the time, if she's being honest with herself. She pays attention to the way they work together, the way they talk and look at each other. It's inevitable; she is around him nearly every day. It's not every day that he looks at her in _that way_ , however, in a way that feels so blatant.

He looks good, not flushed or distracted, which makes her wonder if what she has seen wasn't drinking so much as socially imbibing for his audience. His eyes are clear as they consider his hand, his mouth changing minutely as he smiles, little ticks that would have been tells if Varric wasn't already aware of them. Hawke takes a drink and ignores the way his earrings shine and the barely there pressure of his boot touching hers.

He places one of his cards face down before she realizes that she didn't respond to his quip. She shrugs when he looks back at her, and she feels a blush rise up her neck when she realizes that he is _still_ looking at her like that. In front of their friends. In front of _her;_ the audacity of this dwarf.

"I can be subtle," Hawke says as she draws a card. She forces herself to look at her cards and to not lose all of her coin to Fenris because she is having a dozen revelations concerning Varric in a span of seconds. She has always known that he was attractive, but now every aspect of him seems magnified, and questions she doesn't let herself entertain begin cropping up. Would his touch feel better with or without his gloves on? Does he want to touch her right now? 

Varric chuckles and shakes his head, and for the moment Hawke is certain that he isn't aware of her own awareness of him. How can he chuckle warmly like friends while mentally unbuttoning her shirt? How could he look at her like potential when she only looks like that because it's warmer than usual outside?

"As subtle as a charging Qunari, as we all have seen," Varric says, to the chorus of agreements from the others. She nudges his foot with her own, moving his boot. The motion has him sitting up a little more, and he glares at her half-heartedly. He doesn't move away.

"The charge is not where I'm subtle," Hawke replies, curiously emboldened. She can feel the heat of Isabela on her other side, which gives her an odd thrill-scare to feel it replicated in front of her when Varric continues to look at her. Varric hums and takes another drink.

"This card ends the game, right?" Merrill asks as she places the Angel of Death on the table. Hawke's groans are nearly hushed under the rest of them, and she shows her hand. It turns out it's not as bad as she expected, distracted as she is.

"Ha!" Hawke shouts as she wins the first round. She can't help the shit-eating grin she directs at Varric over her shoulder as she rakes in her winnings. "Who's subtle now?"

"I'd say Daisy is the subtle one here," Varric responds, shaking his head. He looks over to Isabela. "You taught her properly this time, I see."

"I teach _everyone_ properly, I'll have you know," Isabela says, throwing her own hand into the pile to be shuffled. Hawke feels Isabela's fingers pressing against her back, close to her waistband. She sees Varric's eyes flick to the movement before turning back to take another drink. Hawke turns to Isabela, and the clear glee in her face softens the glare she gives in return.

Hawke doesn't know if she should bother telling Isabela to stop. Her actions make it clear that it really has been Varric this whole time and not something she had been making up in her head. He has been looking and _considering._ Hawke shakes her head to drop the thought and sits back against her chair again, watching as Isabela picks up the deck to shuffle for the second round.

Hawke keeps her eyes on Isabela's shuffling, but she lets herself hook her foot a little around Varric's heel, pulling it forward. When she looks back to him, he's also watching Isabela shuffle, likely watching in case an extra ace finds its way in. As Isabela begins dealing, he spares another glance at Hawke. She lets the attention sear for a moment, then smirks to deflect it. She pats his shoulder consolingly, feeling annoyingly aware of the density of his duster.

"Didn't you say that it was suicide to play against me?" Hawke asks, giving him a sweet smile and fanning her dealt hand towards her face, blowing her hair back. Varric scoffs.

"We'll see who's crowing next round," Varric replies. The response is _weak_ , but the night has already been an odd one for them. A small smirk is Hawke's response, and for a few rounds, they get back into Wicked Grace.

-

They play for a little while longer -Varric does win, _once_ -, but as the rounds pass, Hawke notices that Varric is folding more often than not, leaning back into his chair and resting a hand under his chin. He also stops drinking, his pint left half-finished at his elbow. Hawke gives him a nudge with her hand.

"Done already?" Hawke asks. He gives her an unimpressed look, but the expression softens as she doesn't look away, his gaze going over the features of her face. He's simply _looking._ She turns her head to play her turn. They've been focused on the game; now that he wasn't paying attention to it, Hawke finds his focus warm and intense again. Speculative, familiar in the way that only Varric is to her. Searing in a way that Varric is usually _not._ Hawke glares at her cards in an effort to ignore it.

Her hand is bad, and she doesn't feel up to cheating this round. Hawke sighs and leans back. There are more people in the Hanged Man, making it muggy with everyone talking and sweating. Hawke looks up at the ceiling and pulls her shirt away from her chest to fan herself. Varric shifts next to her.

"I recognize that shirt," Varric says. Hawke looks at him.

"You might have been with me when I found it. Unless you think it's yours?" Hawk speculates, pulling it further away from her chest. It wasn't a color she thought Varric would wear. "It's not revealing enough to be yours."

Varric's chuckles turn into rumbling laughter. His eyes clearly trace the buttons over her chest, and Hawke finds herself suddenly in a world where Varric Tethras has given up all pretenses. She's not sure she's ready to live in that world yet, if ever. She finds herself again at that precipice of thrill-fear, or perhaps she's playing chicken. In the moment, she can't tell, but she can do something about it.

"Did you want it?" Hawke hears herself asking, keeping the tease light. She keeps her eyes on his face, though the urge to look away, to give herself the out, is strong. It's worth it; Hawke keeps herself still as, in a moment that is surprisingly clear, Varric becomes aware that she _noticed_.

Hawke absorbs Varric's expression as it morphs from surprise to consideration and landing on something close to his salesperson face, but even that drops as she refuses to give him space, her eyes pinning him down. She can see him getting ready to brush it off or to even continue to banter. Hawke watches as Varric eventually settles and gives her a rueful grin. 

"Tempting, but I don't think I could wear it was well as you," Varric replies. Hawke lets herself hold the serious expression, then scoffs, relaxing her posture in hopes that he'll think that she let it go. Maybe she would; maybe she would let this moment pass between them like she does with everyone else.

"This old thing?" Hawke asks, brushing a hand down the front. "You're too kind, messere."

It is a deliberate challenge, one she expects Varric to drop. Instead, his eyes follow her hand, and he has the expression he must have had towards her for most of the night. She is both impressed and _bothered_ by this, mostly because it affects her the same way it did earlier when she realized that it was him and not some random patron. 

"Still playing, Hawke?" Isabela asks, her voice soft and unobtrusive on her other side. Hawke pries her eyes away from Varric and looks back at the table, then at her hand. The hand is as bad as it was before. Varric's presence beside her is loud in his silence. Perhaps for now, it would be in her best interest to bow out before she loses more than a round.

"No," she answers, dropping her cards to the table. She's smirking, and she thinks Varric can see through that, too. "I fold."

**Author's Note:**

> Naturally, the moment I finished this work, I felt a keen desire to write the other side, so you can check out Varric's side in the next story, if you're curious.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
